House of Cards
by Otto's Goat
Summary: Drabbles and bits on the house of the Stewards; The House of Húrin.
1. Before his fall from grace

---

My hand within your hand, I lead you down swift stairs and tunnels of old.  
We walk together, and you are mine: I am yours.  
Do not fear the darkness, child o' mine; do not shirk the dust!  
Light your candle, as I do mine, and hold it forth:

What do you see?

Not shadows, but colours renewed:  
There stands Boromir… nay, not your brother, but a man of valour old.  
And here strays Cirion, and even Beregond,  
_The Brave_, I've christened him.

And so we sit, side by side,  
Finding and losing each other between the fading leaves before us.

Let your eyes move with grace upon these pages of lore,  
Let your fingers follow,  
Let me guide your thoughts,

For I am yours, and you, my child; you are mine.

---


	2. Truth

---

His brother's memory is surprisingly impressionable, and he's found that at times he has been able to alter it within his hands; to create events that never took place, and have the child nod his head and eagerly say, Yes, I too remember.

--- Too eagerly.

It's a cruel game, he knows, but it seems to come to life of its own accord, and the words play out through a hazy mass of memories that he feels are twisted by themselves and not by the subtle mumblings of his tongue.

Or maybe that is what he wishes; he does not like to understand the words that slip from between his set lips, for he knows there's a truth between the lines that is hard to read, though there nonetheless.

He always begins with the truth; it's easier that way.

"_She was beautiful_."

No, that is not a lie. Beauty, he's found in his short years, can be distant and cold; a leaf that refuses to spring forth out of the gridlock of vines and seek the light of the sun.

Beauty, he's often thought, can tempt men, and alter an entire mind; a life. He's watched his father all these years, and he has since begun to understand.

He can still bring to mind the flush across her cheeks those early years, before the sun bleached her bare; before she was bled dry; before all gentleness was seeped from underneath her feet, as with everything within the glistening, cool city. But some can find peace within the calm; inside white and the possibilities within it. But not she. No, a blank page was never meant for her, but rather the dance of colours upon the distant vale; the streaks of light that oft fought and still fight out a losing battle with the approach of the patient night.

"_And she liked to laugh. Do you remember her laugh? Everyone could hear it, everyone."_

Not quite as true-- when did he ever hear her laugh? Her mouth was ever set grimly; a line of red that she often hid behind. Her smiles? Rare. Rare and… empty, almost. He had been more at ease with those frowns, for no lies, no sprout of malice could ever seek refuge behind a truthful frown.

"_Some days she would take us with her into the garden---"_

The garden had been dead; was still dead. She was not strong, no she was not. No strength was there in her bones to tend to a rose garden or a thistle bush. And time. She never had any of that. She would lay in bed half the day, saying little; saying nothing. And when he would clamber into her room, hands outstretched and full of earth and sky and all that lies inbetween, she would turn her ashen face from him, and murmur that she was tired. Always tired.

He remembers how he used to stroke the down of her hair, and he'd thought there was acceptance in her unmoving body; her still eyes. He knows better now; he understands it was merely indifference. And that realization seems to be the final ripping of the cord that he's struggled to hold onto since his first cry; his first breath.

"---_and we would sit and play with her. She liked to sing in the garden best, because from there she could see more of the sky. The sky reminded her of the sea."_

He's not sure if he's made this up, but he likes how it sounds, and the look on the child's face is too sweet to ignore.

Was he ever so believing, so true, like this little creature before him? Did he ever watch someone with this same adoration and utter belief? He likes to think he did.

He continues:

"_Everyone loved her."_

He cringes here, and his breath he realizes, seems to slow and press heavy upon him. Love? She never knew the meaning, not in Gondor, not in the city; not in the Steward's arms. Maybe; maybe in the beginning, he likes to think, before she was forced to endure the heavy hand of a constant sun; before the taste of salt was lost to her parched lips-- maybe then she was loved.

"_And she loved everyone_."

Had she ever loved anyone? He rests his chin in the warmth of his palm, and ponders his own words. She had never loved him, that he was certain. Or maybe she had, before she realized that he would one day become a man; maybe that was what had taken her away from him.

And the child at his knee? Had she ever loved him? He recalls how she used to sit beyond the walls, and touch the babe's closed eyes with fingertips, and somehow it seemed sacred at the time: a mother in awe of motherhood; a babe who has placed his trust within his mother's trembling, unsure hands. Innocence made twofold.

But then, at other, lesser times, she would look down at them, almost surprised it would seem. Her eyes would grow large, then narrow, and one slender finger would slide to the corner of her mouth as she watched them stare back at her. That habit, of biting the tip of one finger, has been passed on, he notes, to the little one before him. Gently, he takes the finger out of the boy's mouth, making sure not to look into the young one's eyes; he's afraid of what he'll recognize within that steadfast gaze.

"_Sometimes she would gather us round, and we would crawl into her bed, and the spread smelt of flowers, and she would sing to us--"_

He pauses for a moment, then hurriedly continues, words tumbling over and atop each other in a rush that strums against his chest. There's a river he's long kept secret; a spring that's been bubbling within him, beneath the hills and the valleys of his ready smile, that no one has of yet unearthed.

"_We would fall asleep, you and I, on either side of her, and would rest with her. You would cry sometimes, and she would hold you close, like this--"_

Like this!

"_And she would tell you to not cry, because you were her own little one, and she loved you very much…She'd say, "My little babe, I love you;  
Don't cry,  
don't cry,  
don't cry…  
I will always be here for you,  
always,  
always,  
always…"_

He holds his brother close, and the air seems strangely full. There's a thread, a knot, at the back of his aching throat, and he keeps his eyes shut securely, thinking that if they stay like this long enough, the past might well change.

--And she will come forth out of the woodwork; a portrait he's painted over these slow passing years, at last complete, and the dream will end--- or maybe it will begin?

"Yes, I remember," says the child, smiling unknowingly up at him. "I remember all of that, and even more, for I was there as well."

---


	3. Games

_Ehm, I must apologize for the length of this. Personally, my attention span lasts all of thirty seconds, so good luck to you. I've drifted from prosetry here. Sometimes things write out on their own, I guess._

---

You enter the room swiftly, stealthily, knowing that he will make an attempt to leave as soon as you make your entrance. But he is already scraping his chair back and nodding towards you in greeting, and you are forced to look around him, as though he is not who you were looking for. You are in search of shadows.

"Good morning, Father," he says. Not waiting for you to reply, he departs. You stand for a moment alone, staring down at the remains of his breakfast, wondering why the mornings seem the most loneliest; why thoughts linger on and words only echo.

Gathering your robes about you, you take the door he took, and pass through the familiar halls. You know him well enough, as you should, for you've been his father for many a year now. You know which passageways he will take, and where he is headed.

You find him out on the terrace, hands braced against the walls, the city falling away before him. But his eyes are set on the fields spreading out, and you are suddenly reminded of a bird in mid-flight. This time you make your way slowly towards him, stopping now and then to toe a weed that has shot through the cobbles. You squint up at the sun, trying to gauge the morning's lateness, and drift towards him. Only you know that he's pulling you to him, and that there is nothing lazy about the direction of your steps.

There never was.

When you are finally standing beside him, you cannot help but breathe deeply in. There's a scent about him, so different from his brother's, that weakens your knees and scores something through your insides. You remember him a babe, you remember his clean, washed body, and the tiny fists curled about your fingers. You remember his heady cry; his voice a foretelling of what he would one day become. A boy, strong and unbreakable, on the cusp of manhood. A boy like any other, but not, for he is your own.

With the other one, there had been none of that. That sense of familiarity had never been there at birth; not the way it had been with this child. You smile to yourself, remembering how he used to accompany you about the city; the serious, dark haired child so like yourself.

An image rears up: a small, thoughtful boy, walking beside you. He is only six and already he does not want to hold your hand. He walks to the right of you, trying to catch your shadow's strides within his own. You laugh; he laughs in return. You are not wise enough, and you do not recognize the child's hand stretching away from you as a sign; you are merely amused by the distance between you, and the play of your shadow and his against the white walls.

You looks towards the hills, and think of your other son, away now, no doubt carousing through the city or the fields beyond. He is never there when he is wanted, and his absences annoy you. Guilt chimes through you, and you are aware that though you are angry with him, you've waited for him to be away; you are not sure why.

You turn to face this other child now, and you watch him pretend to not be aware of you. Though he stands still, and patience painfully lines his face, there is something unruly about him; something still fresh and gangly and unlearned. He is waiting for something, or someone, and it shows. You know that soon this will pass, and manhood will be upon him, and he will have learnt the art of false serenity.

You do not like to think of it.

His silence bothers you, though you do not know why. You have not spoken much in the past years. You know that he speaks, and often, with others. You have heard his laughter among the Guardsmen, and you have seen the interest in his eyes as they tell him of what lies beyond his steep walls. No doubt he thinks you've built these walls, and you have, in some ways, for you are not ready to reveal him to the elements just yet. No, not yet. But you are disheartened when you hear his voice about you; it feels like a game, and you chase after the sound, and when you find him at last, all is silent.

It is only in your presence that he begins to mumble, the words barely leaving the root of his mouth. You know that this must change. He must not feel unnatural about you. He must understand, somehow, that he matters more. But it must not be spoken, it must only be felt. You do not want the other one to understand.

You think suddenly of a form, and of metal, hot and brilliant, being poured in. Your heart is the mold, and the metal is the distance now between you and your son. And you cannot even call it distance. No, you cannot. It is something more, though you admit it to no one save the night.

It is fear.

You felt it long ago for the first time, when you watched your wife hold her newborn babe within her arms. It was unnatural, to see her so immersed in something other than herself. When she finally went, you realized that you had been holding your breath all the while; you could breathe out at last.

You recall teaching him how to read and to count; how alike you were! You consider his skill with the sword and the spear; his quick mind; his quicker hand, and you are pleased, as any father would be. You think of the other one now, less loved and less wanted, for he came at time that was unripe for him. You have loved them both; yes, you have, but those feelings are separate. You cannot compare the two of them equally, you think, and you never will.

"I had a dream this last night," he says at last, more to himself then to you. You are not surprised; dreams run through your family like water through wine, and even the other child has been known to dream. Though you think, wrongfully, that the other one's dreams mean little (you do not yet know that all dreams have roots, and limbs, and that all dreams yearn for the sky overhead). If he would, you would tell him now of your first dreams, for they were sweet and you still meditate upon them. But you know better. So you nod your head and turn to look at him.

"And what did you dream of?"

He smiles to himself. "Nothing. Only I dreamt of a strong wind sailing across the earth, headed for Gondor. It came in the shape of a horse, but built of wind and things unseen. It entered my room, and I learned its secrets. I learned much."

You nod your head again, but you are not pleased. "And what does my son think it means?" You ask, though you know yourself its meaning; you are only testing him.

He lies: "It means nothing."

And though he tries to hide it, there is a smile about his face, or rather, many smiles. He is all at once a young colt, eager and naïve, unaware of your scrutiny. You cringe.

He still looks out towards the fields of your land, and you think to yourself that it is only a sea. Yes, only a sea of earth and sky. But it is enough.

You move your hand, which has been resting on the wall beside his. Your fingers are long and pale, while his have been tarnished by the sun. You shift your hand closer to his, and the movement sickens you: your creeping fingers remind you of a pale, unearthly spider. Noble blood runs through you, yet you have inherited the hands of your mother.

He too looks down, and peers first at his hand, then at your own. You quickly fold your hands back under your robes. He continues to stare unseeingly down at his own hands, fingers spread far apart.

You would like to tell him of the times you watched him as a child; the many times you promised yourself to touch both of them more--- but the sun would rise each morning, and promises made to the night have little bearing in the day.

He turns to face you at last, this boy, this man, who is more like you than any other. In him you see your own youth, and you wonder: you wonder at what may have been. For your arms are weak now, as is your heart. Youth has passed you by and lighted upon this fair face before you.

You are studying him, as he is studying you, and suddenly, his face turns not into the vulnerable face of a child, but the stern, masked face of a man. You step back.

"Was there something you wanted, Father?" He asks, and you think to yourself, No, nothing. Only let me stand here. Let me watch the White Tree ripple behind your raven head. Let me imagine. Let me pretend.

But you shake your head, defeated, and not knowing why. He turns then, and his steps draw away from you. You let your hands fall back down against the rock, and the white fingers search for crevices to dig within, to hide inside.

You love him, but he must not know it unless he guesses at it on his own, for you will not tell him. It is not good for you to love the younger one the more, not when the elder still yearns for you, not when this child seeks the council of another; not when he looks through you and into you.

No, it is not good.

---


End file.
